A Rogue by Any Other Name (46 page)

Cross dealt another card, the three of hearts.
Seven
. Michael willed her to hold, knowing that the next hit would likely bring her over twenty-one. It was the easiest of mistakes, to wager on a pair of low cards.

“Another, please.”

Cross hesitated, knowing the odds and not liking them.

“The girl asked for another,” Langford said, all smugness, knowing he was about to win, and Michael vowed that, while the older man might leave the club without losing a thing, he’d leave having felt the full force of Michael’s fist.

The six of hearts slid into place beside the other cards.
Thirteen.

Penelope bit her lip and checked the facedown card again—proof that she was a novice at the game. If she had twenty-one, she would not have looked. She met Cross’s gaze, then Michael’s, worry in her eyes, and Michael would have wagered his entire fortune that she’d gone over. “Is that it?”

“Unless you’d like another.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“The girl is over. A blind man could see it.” Langford revealed his second card with a smirk. A queen.
Twenty.

The viscount was the luckiest man in London tonight.

And Michael didn’t care.

He simply wanted this evening over, so he could bring his wife home and tell her that he loved her.
Finally.

“I am, indeed, over twenty,” Penelope said, revealing her final card.

Michael leaned forward, sure he was mistaken.

The eight of diamonds.

Cross could not keep the surprise from his voice. “The lady has twenty-one.”

“Impossible.” Langford leaned forward. “Impossible!”

Michael could not help himself. He laughed, drawing her attention with the sound. “My magnificent wife,” he said, pride in his words as he shook his head in disbelief.

There was a movement behind her, then all hell broke loose.

“You cheating
bitch.
” Langford’s heavy hands were on her shoulders, yanking her out of her chair with furious anger, and she cried out and stumbled before he lifted her from the floor and shook her violently. “You think this a game? You cheating
bitch
!”

It couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two before Michael reached her, but it felt like an eternity before he extracted her from Langford’s grasp and passed her to Cross, already there, waiting to keep her safe.

And then Michael went after Langford with visceral intent. “I don’t have to ruin you, after all,” he growled. “I shall kill you instead.” And then he had the other man’s lapels in hand, and he was spinning him toward the wall, thrusting him into it with all his might, wanting to punish him over and over again for daring to touch Penelope.

For daring to hurt her.

He wanted this man dead. Now.

“You think I am still a boy?” he asked, pulling Langford away from the wall and pounding him back into it. “You think you can come to
my
club and threaten my
wife
without repercussions? You think I would let you
touch
her? You aren’t fit to breathe her
air.
”

“Michael!” she cried from across the room, where Cross kept her from entering the fray. “Stop it!” He turned to her, saw the tears running down her cheeks and stilled, torn between hurting Langford and comforting her. “He’s not worth it, Michael.”

“You married her for land,” Langford said, sucking air into his lungs. “You might have fooled the rest of London. But not me. I know Falconwell matters more to you than anything in the world. She was a means to an end. You think I don’t see that?”

A means to an end.
The echo of the words—so oft repeated at the beginning of their marriage—was a blow, in part because they were true, but mostly because they were so very false. “You bastard. You think you know me?” He slammed Langford into the wall again, the force of the emotion making him more furious. “
I love her.
She is the
only
thing that matters.
And you dared to touch her.
”

Langford opened his mouth to speak, but Michael cut him off. “You don’t deserve mercy. You’ve been a disgrace as a father and a guardian and a man. You owe the fact that you remain able to walk entirely to the generosity of the lady. But if you come within a mile of her again, or if I ever hear a whisper of your speaking ill of her, I shall take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb. Is that clear?”

Langford swallowed and nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“Do you doubt I would do it?”

“No.”

He thrust the viscount toward Bruno. “Get rid of him. And send for Thomas Alles.” Michael was already moving across the room, sure that his bidding would be done, crushing Penelope in his arms.

She pressed her face to the curve of his neck. “What did you say?” she whispered to the skin there, her voice shaking as his hands ran over her back clasping her to him. She lifted her head, blue eyes glistening with tears, and repeated, “What did you say?”

It was not the way he would have planned to tell her, but nothing about their marriage had happened in a traditional manner, and he supposed this moment should be no different than all the rest. So there, standing in the middle of an overturned card room in a gaming hell, he met his wife’s gaze, and said, “I love you.”

She shook her head. “But, you chose him. You chose vengeance.”

“No,” he said, leaning against the card table, pulling her to stand between his thighs, taking her hands in his. “No. I choose you. I choose love.”

She tilted her head, searching his gaze. “Is that true?”

And suddenly, the truth mattered more than he could ever have imagined. “God, yes. Yes, it’s true.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I choose you, Penelope. I choose love over revenge; I choose the future over the past; I choose your happiness over all else.”

She was silent for a long while, long enough for him to worry. “Sixpence?” he asked, suddenly terrified. “Do you believe me?”

“I—” She started, then stopped, and he knew what she was about to say.

Wished he could stop it.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Twenty-two

P
enelope did not sleep that night. She did not even try.

And so, when Tommy called the next morning, it did not matter that it was at an hour far too early for callers. He was standing at the fireplace, greatcoat on, hat and cane in hand, when she entered the receiving room.

He turned, met her red eyes, and said, all tact, “Dear God. You look as awful as he does.”

That was all it took. She burst into tears.

He came toward her, “Oh, Pen. Don’t. Ah—dammit. Don’t cry. I take it back. You don’t look awful at all.”

“Liar,” she said, wiping away tears.

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Not at all. You look entirely fine. Not in the least bit like a simpering female.”

She felt like a fool. “I can’t help it, you know.”

“You love him.”

She took a deep breath. “Terribly.”

“And he loves you.”

Tears threatened again. “He says he does.”

“You don’t believe him?”

She wanted to. Desperately. “I can’t . . . I don’t understand why he would. I don’t understand what about me would have changed him. Would have moved him. Would have made him love me.” She shrugged one shoulder and looked down at her feet, the toes of her green slippers peeping out from beneath the hem of her dress.

“Oh, Pen . . .” He sighed, pulling her into a warm, brotherly embrace. “I was an idiot. And so was Leighton. And all the others. You were better than any of us. Than all of us combined.” He stepped back and took her shoulders, firmly, looking straight into her gaze. “And you’re better than Michael, too.”

She took a deep breath, reaching out to smooth the lapel of his greatcoat. “I’m not, you know.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “And that is the reason why he doesn’t deserve you. Because he’s a royal ass, and you love him anyway.”

“I do,” she said softly.

“I saw him last night, you know, after you left him.” She looked up. “He gave me the proof of my scandal. Told me you’d won it back from him.”

“He gave it to me,” she corrected. “I didn’t have to wager for it. He wasn’t going to ruin you, Tommy. He stopped it.”

Tommy shook his head. “
You
stopped it. You loved him enough to show him that there was more to life than revenge. You’ve changed him. You’ve given him another chance to be the Michael we knew instead of the cold, hard Bourne he became. You’ve moved the mountain.” He lifted one hand to tap her on the chin. “He adores you. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

I choose you. I choose love.

The words she’d played over and over in her mind throughout the night suddenly made sense. And, as though a candle had been lit, she knew, without doubt, that they were true. That he loved her.

The realization made her giddy. “He loves me,” she said, quietly first, letting the words echo through her, testing the way they felt on her tongue. “He loves me,” she repeated, on a laugh, this time to Tommy. “He really does.”

“Of course he does, you silly girl,” Tommy said with a smile. “Men like Bourne do not falsely profess love.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not exactly in keeping with his character.”

It wasn’t, of course. The great, dangerous Bourne, all cold and cruel, the man who ran a gaming hell and abducted women in the dead of night and lived his life for revenge was not a man who fell in love with his wife.

But somehow, he had.

And Penelope knew better than to spend another moment asking how or why . . . when she could simply spend the rest of her life loving him back.

She smiled up at Tommy, and said, “I have to go to him. I have to tell him I believe him.”

He nodded once, satisfied, straightening his greatcoat. “Excellent plan. But, before you rush off to save your marriage, do you have a moment to say good-bye to an old friend?”

In her eagerness to get to Michael, she didn’t understand the words immediately. “Yes, of course.” She paused. “Wait. Good-bye?”

“I’m for India. The ship leaves today.”

“India? Why?” Her brows knitted together. “Tommy, you don’t have to go now. Your secret . . . it is yours again.”

“And for that I shall be eternally grateful. But I’ve passage booked, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

She watched him carefully. “You really want this?”

He raised a blond brow. “You really want Michael?”

Yes. God, yes.
She smiled. “It’s to be adventure for both of us, then.”

He laughed. “Yours more challenging than mine, I suspect.”

“I shall miss you,” she said.

Tommy dipped his head. “And I you. But I shall send your children treats from faraway lands.”

Children.
She wanted to see Michael. Immediately.

“See that you do,” she said. “And I shall regale them with tales of their uncle Tommy.”

“Michael will love that,” he replied with a great laugh. “I expect them to follow in my footsteps, becoming remarkable fishermen and mediocre poets. Now, go fetch your husband.”

She grinned. “I believe I shall.”

M
ichael took the steps to Hell House two at a time, desperate to get to his wife, berating himself for not locking her in a room at the club the night before and refusing to allow her to leave until she believed that he loved her.

How could she not believe him? How could she not see that she was wreaking havoc on his mind and body, that she had destroyed his calm and devastated him with her love? How could she not see that he was desperate for her?

The door opened as he reached the top step, and the object of his thoughts came barreling out of the house, nearly toppling him down the stairs. She pulled up short, her green cloak swirling around her, brushing against his legs, and they stared at each other for a long moment.

He caught his breath at the sight of her. How was it possible that he’d ever thought her plain? She was a jewel in the cold, grey mid-February sleet, all rosy cheeks and blue eyes and lovely pink lips that made him want to carry her to the nearest bed. To their bed. For it was time they had a bed. He was going to knock down the wall between their bedchambers so he never had to stare at that godforsaken door again.

She broke into his thoughts. “Michael—”

“Wait.” He cut her off, not wanting to risk hearing what she had to say. Not before he said his piece. “I’m sorry. Come inside. Please?”

She followed him inside, the sound of the great oak door closing behind them echoing through the marble foyer. Her gaze flickered to the package in his hand. “What is that?”

He’d forgotten he had it. His weapon.

“Come with me.” He took her hand, wishing they weren’t wearing gloves, wishing he could touch her, skin to skin, and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the house, pulling her into the dining room and setting the parchment-wrapped bundle on the long, mahogany table.

“It’s for you.”

She smiled, curious, and he resisted the urge to kiss her, not wanting to rush. Not wanting to scare her. She opened the paper carefully, peeling it back just enough to peer inside. She looked up, brow furrowed in confusion before she removed the parchment. “It’s . . .”

“Wait.” He reached for a match, then set the item on fire.

She laughed, and he relaxed slightly at the sound—music in the big empty room. “It’s a figgy pudding.”

“I don’t want it to be a lie, Sixpence. I want it to be the truth. I want us to have fallen in love over a figgy pudding,” he said, his voice catching. “In you I see my heart, my purpose . . . my very soul.”

There was a moment of complete stillness as she recalled the first time he’d said the words, and he thought, fleetingly, that he might be too late. That this silly pudding was too little.

But then she was in his arms, kissing him, and he put all his love, all his emotion into that caress, loving the way her hands came up to play in the hair at the base of his neck, loving her little gasp as he worried her lower lip with his teeth. She pulled away and opened her beautiful blue eyes to meet his gaze, but he was not ready to release her, and he stole another kiss before vowing, “I am yours, my love . . . yours to do with as you will. When I stole you in the dead of night and claimed you for my own, how could I have known that now—tonight—forever—it would be I who am claimed? My heart that is stolen?